


shifting glass, speckled with rain

by sybilius



Series: l’espoir fait vivre [3]
Category: Disco Elysium (Video Game)
Genre: Canonical POV Style, Domestic, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Fluff, Food, I didn't hit all of them cause I only know so many of their voices, Kim gets the comfort this time, M/M, No Spoilers, Past Addiction, Postcanon by a long time, Second Person, Skills chatting it up, it's what he deserves <3, small reference to canonical glasses ableism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:15:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28387635
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sybilius/pseuds/sybilius
Summary: There's one promise you didn't think you could make good on.He believed you, anyways.(You do).
Relationships: Harry Du Bois/Kim Kitsuragi
Series: l’espoir fait vivre [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2091684
Comments: 8
Kudos: 50





	shifting glass, speckled with rain

**Author's Note:**

> I have a lot of feelings about this game, ok?
> 
> I technically haven't finished the game but you know, have this anyways. I'm aware that in canon Harry and Kim end up as partners, but honestly I think that working with your lover would be a weird dynamic, so in this 'verse I've gone with the idea that they both stick to their precincts but start seeing each other and eventually get an apartment somewhere between (maybe in Martinaise?). 
> 
> Hope you like it :)

Your key turns with a click. 

SHIVERS: Empty coat-racks and extinguished lights do little to quench the city’s greasy fingertips resting on your back. There is silence, no answer to the scuff of your boots on the beaten-down wood floor. Why is it your home feels so strange to you?

PERCEPTION: The other pair of boots is missing from the mat. 

LOGIC: There’s no one home. 

The door that leads to the kitchen is dark. 

INTERFACING: Usually Kim has the stove going by now, or at least the microwave. 

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Well, stop lolly-gagging and make some food!

Freezer: 

  * Box of burritos
  * Loaf of bread
  * Industrial bag of frozen corn



VOLITION: There’s one question asked and answered. 

After some time, the kitchen starts to smell like crisping shell and unspecified “spicy” beef filling. A key twists in the door you absently locked out of habit. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Damnit, missed our chance to light a cigarette. 

Kim Kitsuragi, Precinct 57’s finest, shaking off the rain from his bright orange jacket. He pauses when he sees your coat already lined up against the wall, before adding his. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: On the other hand, Kim’s arms when he takes off his jacket...good trade.

“Hey, tiger. Long day at the precinct?”

He gives you a tired crooked smile out of the corner of his mouth, the one you’ve gotten to know over the past few years.

“That would-be suicide case is still giving us hell. We were at the harborfront again today, and I just know there’s something we’re missing,” he shakes his head vehemently, “Listen to me, following these hunches like I’m about to do a Jamrock shuffle…”

He trails off, murmuring about how he should leave any discussion for morning. Evenings are agreed upon for the both of you-- some time away from case talk, avoiding burnout. 

PERCEPTION: The shadows under his eyes were noticeable this morning -- the day hasn’t made them any better. 

EMPATHY: The remark is for him as much as it is for you.

“Well, take a load off, Lieutenant.”

You pass him a condensation-beaded can from the fridge.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: God, I wish that was a cold one. 

VOLITION: Quit your sulking. You like what we traded _that_ for. 

The soda is sickly-sweet in a way that fizzes at your senses pleasantly anyhow. Kim sits down at the table, you watch him peel off those devastating gloves of his. 

SUGGESTION: Take his hand. 

He looks up almost shy when you do, the dim yellow light clinging to his long eyelashes. He does the same for you when you come home late (which is more often than not). 

HAND-EYE COORDINATION: Stroke his wrist. You know, the way he does to you. 

“I should put something on the stove,” he stands up before you can stop him, all action. 

AUTHORITY: You’re the one that’s got things well in hand here.

“Sorry, I um, grabbed what was in the freezer.”

“Oh. Thank you, that’s -- good,” he tilts his head to look at the oven. 

INTERFACING: He usually turns the oven light on. It would probably make it easier to see.

PERCEPTION: There’s dirt on his glasses. That’s unusual for him. 

You stand up, running a hand gently along his side, smiling into your disco mustache that for some reason he’s admitted to fondness for. He smiles back, weak, confused, but underneath it all, happy. 

INLAND EMPIRE: In his pocket is a small leather case. Inside is a spray bottle, neat dusting on either side of the glass, wipe it with the kerchief inside. You’ve seen him take it out a handful of times, in private moments. Away from prying eyes that would make unsavory remarks about that particular disability. 

HAND EYE COORDINATION: Pickpocket him. You know you can. 

The case finds its way to your hand seamlessly. His attentions are elsewhere, tired eyes looking at you with a fondness that on another night you would shrivel under, but the simple fact that he needs you gives you more strength than a line of snow-pure cocaine. 

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Wouldn’t hurt to have some cocaine too, baby!

With the cool leather safely resting in your calloused palm, you carefully brush your fingers from Kim’s jaw up to his ears, easing his glasses off. He raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. 

SHIVERS: Is it the closeness, the warmth of skin, the light pooling over his cheekbones that drives the city out onto the streets? The absence of a cold draft still feels unfamiliar, the light mist of the spray bottle on your fingertips like the rain has followed you inside, like always. 

The glass smooths to perfect clarity under your attentions. 

You turn your head up. Kim is staring at you with all-too-familiar wonder. You wet your lips. 

ESPRIT DU CORPS: Familiar: same as when he’d caught your silhouette, skulking outside of Precinct 57 a month or so after the case. Then he walked you to the harborfront nearby, dripping with rain. His glasses just as water-fucked then too, and you offered him back his handkerchief. You’d kissed only a handful of times then, but you could feel in the itch to run at your heel that he wanted to give what you had a name. 

EMPATHY: Then he was telling you with his liquid-calm a handful of things you didn’t want to understand. That he knew he was in too deep with you, that he’d been there before that, men just as messy and soaked with carefully named poisons, and he didn’t want that _ending_ with you, didn’t want it to _end,_ he said and that scared you more than any bullet or putrid corpse dream. Wasn’t that _end_ what was always etched in your case file? 

“When-- did you even take my case?” he asks, sounding more than a bit shaky as he handles the glasses cleaner. 

You dig your thumb into his pants pocket. 

“You still have my handkerchief, don’t you,” he laughs, and it breaks just a little in his voice. 

EMPATHY: I could have told you he was thinking about that too.

AUTHORITY: Shut up, he’s going to beat us to --

Kim Kitsuragi, kissing you with more hunger and bite than you would have expected (will it ever cease to amaze you?)

DRAMA: That’s a no, sire.

SHIVERS: The taste of the city-smoke is all over his tongue, and you suck that poison right out of the heart of him. It’s got its home in your veins, not his.

ESPRIT DU CORPS: It’s the lifeblood of the cop on the beat, course it knows him too. 

He breaks off, brushing his forehead against yours before he steps away. You replace the glasses on his face. He gets the oven mitts, you get the plates. 

“Thank you for dinner,” he says quietly after the first bite. 

You scoff on the aftertaste of chemical spices, mostly salt. “It’s not much. Really. Sorry about that.”

“More than enough. I’m not -- used to having someone, in the rare moments where things feel a little out of my hands,” he gestures, deft fingertips elegant as moth wings, “It makes such a difference.”

You pause, grease on your palm and nothing but the mundane humming through your quiet mind. 

“Kim...did I…? Is this _not_ ending?”

“I think so. I wouldn’t actually know, from experience,” he shakes his head, almost sad, “I was bluffing, in a sense, saying that."

“I wanted that for you.” you’re not quite sure why those words, exactly. Nor why you started saying it to begin with. 

But he smiles, takes your hand like he always has. Like he’s himself again.

“We have it.” 

  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Anyways, I want the bad(ish) men to be happy <3
> 
> I sort of imagined the tabbed dialogue/action are those in which different decisions could be made. Which like, makes me fond of all the moments that *aren't*, you know, that Harry is always going to choose Kim in those moments. 
> 
> Comments very welcome! Playing around with this POV was fun. I'm also on gutterinouterspace.tumblr if you want to yell about Disco Elysium :)


End file.
